Style of Substance
by le-ouiaboo
Summary: France/Canada: a gift written many, many years ago, concerning romance and beautiful, silky, French hair. Not my best pairing fic, but still funny even now.


Style of Substance

(You can tell this is one of my earliest fics by the ridiculous French phrasing and punctuation, and the self-awareness of common character tropes associated with these two characters, very malicious. But I wrote it as a gift, and the person liked it, so I am sharing it again with you, too. Hair-curl kink, though we haven't really had confirmation that anyone else's hair curl is an erogenous zone like Italy's and Rome's.)

France visited him only occasionally, though Canada actually appreciated it more than he would dare admit to anyone. To hear his own name, said correctly the first time, in that rich warm voice, well, it was worth all the disparaging comments about his dated fashion and crude interior décor and terrible excuse for food and overall lack of culture. No matter what was said, Canada just smiled at the thinly veiled complaints (wrapped in enthusiastic embraces and unwanted kisses), looking down at his feet because it kind of hurt to see the look in the other's eyes. It was the sort of look that could break your heart if you did not guard yourself carefully. And he was careful to remain on guard, the result of decades of proper British upbringing. Though on further consideration, the proper British upbringing might be part of the reason why France was habitually giving him such a hard time. Well, that could not be helped…

Today, France's sneers and jibes lacked spirit, and he spent the rest of the morning after breakfast lounging on the couch, staring blankly out the window. From his vantage point by the living room door, Canada wondered what troubled him, what dark thoughts creased his smooth brow and brought down the corners of a mouth better suited for smirking and whispering honeyed French nothings. To see France look so uncharacteristically solemn, he thought he should say something nice, a guest should not feel sad…

France noticed him before he could think of what to say and was now giving him a half curious, half amused look.

"Ah, _merci_, Canada. Come here, sit down."

Caught off guard, Canada nodded shyly, almost tripping over a wrinkle in the rug in his haste to bring the rapidly cooling coffee mugs over. He recovered just in time, and looked up to see France half-risen off the couch, one hand reaching out towards his former colony, either to help him up or possibly save at least one cup from uncertain doom.

They sat together in silence, sipping the creamy café au lait slowly, feeling liquid warmth steal through their veins and spread down their backs to cold fingers and toes. When France set his mug down on the table with a slight thunk, Canada almost jumped. He had not realized how close they were, shoulders and legs almost touching. Silently, he begged forgiveness from England, his brothers, as France leaned in closer, looking thoughtful. Oh God, was he going to try to k-kiss him? This was bad – but he wanted it – he should speak out – but he shouldn't interrupt. Canada shut his eyes, feeling long fingers sweep through his hair, brushing across the long curl, and then lightly massaging his scalp in a way that should not make him squeak and feel so shamefully hot and fluttery inside.

When something scandalous refused to happen in the following minute, Canada decided to open one eye to peek.

France was staring at the top of his head, a look of deep concentration on his face.

"Umm… France, is there something wrong?" Weren't we about to make out, he wanted to say but did not.

"_Non, non_." France chuckled, low and throaty, and the other nation relaxed, just a little bit. "But I was wondering, what shampoo do you use to wash your hair?"

"Oh, something I found in the grocery store on sale," Canada answered, not sounding disappointed at the strange question, not at all.

"_Mon dieu_, the grocery store, next to your Kraft dinners and pancake batter mixes?" France could not possibly look more horrified on such short notice, and he took his fingers out of Canada's hair as quickly as he could without getting his ring stuck in the curl. "I-I suppose it would be silly to assume you go to a salon every two months?" he asked, fearing the answer, and rightly so.

"The salon?" Canada laughed. Only women would go to a salon, he was not a woman, or even human. "Why would I need to go there? If I need a haircut, America usually does it, since I can't see the back of my own head too well, hah hah. Err… are you okay?"

Now France looked like he was about to die of a stroke.

"Canada… please… stop speaking."

"But you asked me a ques-"

"Sssh!"

France regarded his protégé warily, silently berating himself for not discovering this atrocious state of affairs sooner. He could not understand how Canada could neglect such beautiful, enviable silky French hair, to the point of washing with dubious discounted products found in the local supermarket. Not to mention, letting America handle the cutting of his hair, as if they were both still colonies out in the wilderness instead of civilized developed nations with high standards of living - why, the thought almost made France feel faint again.

The young nation looked crestfallen once he realized that France did not approve of his haircare regime at all. Canada thought it might be best to not mention how rarely he brushed his hair at this point, France's expression was really starting to frighten him.

"Are you upset with me, Papa?" Canada asked timidly. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you mad."

"No, I could never be upset with you, _mon cher_." France tried to smile, but it looked rather fixed compared to his usual smooth grins, for he was still in severe shock. "I just wanted… what are you doing?! Get your hair out of your mouth, you're going to get split ends!" he shrieked, and Canada, who had just started nervously chewing a strand of hair like one would chew a fingernail, let go of the strand at once.

"Ahh, I'm sorry, I'm sorry! It's a habit, I'm so sorry."

Rubbing his forehead, France sighed and tried to calm down. This was going to be difficult, perhaps impossible, seeing how little Canada did to maintain his appearance, but he would not leave until he impressed upon his former colony the importance of taking care of one's hair. After all, Canada had been blessed with silky _French_ hair, yet his careless brother to the south knew something of styling and tinting his own unmanageable locks. France blamed it on England's influence, as he always did. But even England turned to him for the latest on fashion trends (when they were not fighting, if England felt really bored), so it would not be out of place to proffer his expertise to their sons. Why he would be shirking his fatherly duties to not show them how to groom themselves properly! Exactly.

With a much more genuine smile, France drifted over to the nearly distraught Canada, placing a comforting arm on his shoulder. "I apologize sincerely for my harsh words back then, Canada. Is there… anything I can do to show my regrets?" Tenderly, he traced the other's jawline with one perfectly manicured hand, brushing his thumb against a trembling lower lip just so, leaving Canada red-faced and flustered.

"Oh, uh, you don't really have to do anything, it's cool, I mean… We're okay, now, eh?"

"Please, you must allow me to make amends for being such an unpleasant guest," he purred softly as Canada shivered in rather obvious delight. "I shall return in a little while, and set this to rights. Until then, _au revoir~."_ One quick kiss on Canada's forehead, and then France flounced off to do some serious shopping.

"Wait, shouldn't I be going with you?" he started, but France had already swept out the front door, humming to himself. Canada sighed and then shot a half-hearted glare at his polar bear, who stared at him blankly. As always.

Well, if he wanted to keep France's attention, a dubious honor to say the least, then he should take matters in his own hands, and if it meant he had to do the chasing, so be it.

It was easy to track France down whenever he came to Canada. All he had to do was follow the trail of giggling blushing women, or men who looked vaguely insulted yet flattered at the same time. After about fifteen minutes of walking around the high-class shopping district, Canada found himself standing in front of what seemed to be a shop selling merchandise of an intimate nature, which he could have sworn was not supposed to be there. He gulped in embarrassment, trying to not look at the scantily clad mannequins in the window, but before he could gather up the courage to enter the store, the door opened and France was looking back at him, grinning.

"My dear Canada, I was not aware of your predilections! But never mind that. Papa is very proud of you getting in touch with your feminine side. Shall we-?"

"N-no, I don't, it's not like that! I was just trying to find you and I ended up… around here."

France made a tsk-ing noise and patted his blushing cheek in pure affection, while the saleslady politely asked them if they had an appointment to be fitted.

They finally cleared up that misunderstanding, much to France and the saleslady's disappointment. As the two walked along to find this new store France had been eyeing, the older nation began a lengthy dissertation on the art and science of hair management. Canada nodded at the appropriate times, making encouraging noises, but steadily getting more mystified as soon as France discussed the merits of pH balance, the latest developments in protein and aerosol technology, and used extremely complex organic chemistry models and biological terms to describe the ideal conditioner solution.

France finished with his personal thoughts on the advances in pomade composition over the centuries, and beamed at Canada.

"Wow… that sounds very… involved."

"_Oui, oui._ And I am telling you only a fraction of what there is to know. French women do much to maintain their hair, but, ah, it is worth it, for they are among the most stylish and beautiful in all of Europe." France closed his eyes briefly, as if to bring up that lovely vision in his mind, and Canada felt almost jealous. Why, Canadian women could look beautiful, too, they weren't all frumpy and unfashionable all the time, just whenever it was snowing too hard to style their hair or wear heels, which was… a lot of the time.

Canada was not one to discriminate against those whose orientations could be questioned, he made it a point to not act like his sometimes close-minded brother, but right now, right now… He really really really wanted to treat this salesperson like a second-class citizen. How dare he fawn over France like that, looking so hip and trendy with his rock-star hairstyle and runway model outfit, completely ignoring Canada standing right next to him. That fellow was standing much too close, Canada observed testily, and looked at France too familiarly, and was chatting with him too casually. Of course, France was giddily soaking up the attention, practically flirting with the star-struck young man, and it said much of Canada that he did not place any blame on France whatsoever.

Taking a breath to calm down, he stepped over to France's side, placing his hand on the back of the other nation's arm so that the salesman could not miss it.

"Actually, this product would be for me," he interrupted, with a forced smile on his lips. Fortunately, Canada's own citizens noticed him slightly more often than the other nations did, though that still wasn't very often.

"Oh, yes," France agreed, giving a charming toss of his hair that caused a nearby female customer to nearly faint. "I am just helping him look for something suitable. Do you have any other suggestions?"

The salesman gave Canada a long hard stare, noting his baggy sweatshirt and beat-up looking jeans and sneakers, probably trying to assess how likely it would be that the gay French dude would pay for this runaway teen's considerable haircare needs. Then he sniffed and turned on his heel, stating that he would need to bring out the extra-strength formulas from the back room, if the two of them could please wait here for a moment.

"You can let go of my arm now," France murmured and Canada blushed and stuck both of his hands deep into his jeans pockets.

"I don't know about this, France, everything seems awfully expensive here…" He had noticed that there were no price tags on any of the products, none of which looked like they would ever be discounted for any reason, and he dared not ask the cost.

Smiling somewhat wistfully at the shelves lined with designer-sleek bottles of shampoo and conditioner and anti-frizz serum, France set down the can of hairspray he was inspecting. "We can always go somewhere else."

"Er, n-no, I mean…" Canada felt torn between getting out of the salon and doing whatever it took to keep France's attentions on him. The latter concern won. "I guess I could just try the stuff, if you think it will really work, eh?" he whispered.

"It will work. All your hair needs is some loving care every now and then, to bring out its beauty," France said, brushing a lock of Canada's hair out of his face and gently tucking it behind his ear. The younger nation almost squeaked again and managed to silence himself in time. God, he hoped France didn't notice that, but this was France, the only one who ever got his name right, the one who raised him when he was an infant, and if anyone would notice that near-slip, it would be him.

But luckily, France only gave him a fond if somewhat amused look. The salesman returned with the costliest, most high-end bottles of shampoo and conditioner, and France selected two for the meantime - the Alterna Hemp with Organics Shine Shampoo and the Ten Conditioner.

"Do not worry, _mon ange_, I will take care of this," he said as soon as he saw Canada fumble for his wallet. His embarrassed thanks were absolutely adorable, but France would not hear of Canada paying him back. "As long as you give it a try, that's all I ask of you."

Canada had been planning to sleep with the bottles on his pillow, since they cost that much, but he promised he would try them as soon as possible. They exited the salon without further incident and Canada let out a breath he did not know he was holding.

Canada insisted that he pay for their lunch, and France laughed, but agreed with a dazzling smile. It was a pleasant stroll to the small yet sufficiently romantic Italian restaurant Canada had been thinking of, but then France decided he must take a look inside a random shop along the way, and Canada was forced to follow.

The shop was far more modest than the salon they had just visited, focused on the natural organic side of beauty, with plants and small water fountains tucked into various corners to set a dreamy atmosphere.

"Again with the no price tags," Canada thought solemnly, setting one of the elegantly labeled bottles back onto its shelf. "And again with him flirting… I swear, he's doing this on purpose."

Sure enough, France was lavishing compliments on a saleswoman with long wavy blonde hair, who smiled and answered him in French. She looked out of the corner of her eyes at Canada and whispered something to France and they both laughed.

Feeling left out of the conversation, Canada asked, "What are you talking about?"

"She wanted to know if she could touch your hair."

That did not sound like what they were talking about, but she did inspect a strand of his hair in a very business-like manner. In just a few minutes, the saleswoman showed him some of their most effective formulas, made with certified organic herbal ingredients, fresh mountain water, no animals were harmed in the making of this product, etcetera, and bewildered, he nodded and said they sounded fine. She asked if he were sure, and at this, he automatically looked over at France for help. France said nothing, only smiled, and swallowing his uncertainty, Canada tentatively chose two that he liked the sound of.

"Very good choice," France said warmly, and Canada almost jumped again at the other's sudden proximity. The saleswoman rang them up, all cheerful smiles, though Canada felt otherwise once he saw the totals.

Their lunch ended well, as France found nothing to complain about and instead watched the passersby while Canada kept looking from the street to France and back again, fiddling with the straw in his soda drink. Resting his chin in hand, France glanced over at the younger nation, who seemed to be mustering up the courage to say something.

"Did you need something, _mon petit_?"

Canada's shoulders visibly sagged in relief once he heard the question. "I just wanted to say thank you, _merci_, for this. I am really grateful that you took the time to go shopping for me, you didn't have to…" He trailed off with a sheepish grin.

"No, no, it was my pleasure," France answered, and then laughed that comfortably warm laugh of his, sending happy shivers down Canada's spine. "After all, England certainly wasn't going to do it!"

"Heh, that's so true…" A pause. "Umm… I don't want you to think that I don't care about my hair and stuff, but I just… never thought you would notice." No one else notices, no one else gives a crap, but Canada stopped the rest of that tired thought.

France reached over and rested his hand on top of Canada's fingers, warm against the other's cool skin. "I hope today has forever rid you of the notion that I do not notice," he said, voice both kind and gently admonishing. "I do care about you, very much so, and you letting me care… has made this day one of the most wonderful times I can remember."

"R-really?" He was blushing so hard now, he knew, but he was thrilled by France's touch, his words, how sweet and attentive he could be whenever he wasn't acting like a perverted douchebag. There was nothing he wanted more in the world than to have this moment last forever.

"_Oui, bien sûr._ Now, let's go home, and we can discuss this further."

They were currently at a standoff, staring at each other in front of Canada's bathroom. France had wanted to go in and wash Canada's hair, supposedly to show him how to do it properly, but Canada was not about to let him touch his hair or risk being seen half naked. Much too dangerous.

"Look, I know how to wash my hair! I'm not a colony anymore, and besides, I'm just testing these out," Canada said firmly, determined to not let the older nation come any closer. Who knew if he would be able to control his u-urges, though Canada was not sure if he meant France or himself…

"Fine, if that is what you want. But I'll be here if you need me." France crossed his arms and leaned against the wall facing the door, and Canada breathed a sigh of relief as he locked himself inside the room and proceeded to run the water.

Several minutes later, after the sound of the tap stopped, the door opened slightly, and Canada's sopping wet head poked out.

"Err… how do you use this?" he asked, holding out the bottle of expensive conditioner.

Anticipating this, France grinned, that telltale glint in his eyes somewhat offset by the slightly worried curve to his brows. "Allow me to show you the art of conditioning~."

It felt nice, Canada thought later, France's fingers gentle against his scalp, massaging the conditioner thoroughly into his damp hair with graceful motions. Even though he was currently sitting on the toilet, wearing only his jeans and a towel draped over his shoulders, having someone else pamper him, give him some attention, even if it was just for his silly hair, was the most luxurious feeling he had ever experienced. He thought he could get used to it, but knew better than to ever expect such loving care again.

Canada suddenly jerked fully awake from his drowsiness, brought to alertness by an alarming sensation he should have expected, but somehow did not. Good grief, France was tugging on that long loop of hair, sliding it between slick fingers, watching it straighten and then spring back into place with a curious smile on his face.

"A-ah, France! Please don't touch that?" he squawked, instinctively trying to curl into a ball despite the unusual seat.

"What, this?" France ran the lock of hair in between his fingers again, stopping only when Canada let out a soft anguished cry, face bright red and fists clenched shut.

"Oh, does it hurt?" he asked in concern, letting go of Canada's hair immediately.

"No! Err, no, it just tickles, not used to other people touching my hair, hah hah." He would never admit how sensitive that curl could be, when he was in the right, how you say, frame of mind. Canada blinked tear-filled eyes and attempted to smile calmly through the growing heat pooling between his legs, as if nothing had happened. Clearing his throat a few times, not trusting himself to look directly at France, not even his fancy pointy-toed European shoes, Canada ended up looking at his own bare feet.

"Uh… so, is that how you use conditioner? Seems pretty easy, eh."

Though he regarded that hair curl with increasing suspicion, France merely nodded and smiled in his most comforting manner. "You can either leave it in like that or rinse your hair out in a few minutes, whichever you prefer. Since your hair is already so thick and healthy-looking, you don't need to use it every day, perhaps three times a week. But after a few weeks, you will notice a significant difference in its texture, its manageability…"

"Heh, you sound like a television ad."

"I know, I know, but I can't help it." France chuckled and leaned over to press a kiss right on top of Canada's hair, and this time Canada really had to bite his tongue to keep from moaning. Too close, he thought, close enough so that he could smell the other's cologne, dark and spicy and heady, and just that was driving him crazy with desire.

"Are you sure you're all right? You feel so hot," France murmured after placing his hand on Canada's forehead.

"I-I think my hair hurts," Canada whispered, unable to form a logical sentence now, but not caring anymore. "Maybe you could kiss it again, to make it better?"

"Your hair hurts? Well… I suppose that's possible, we did put you through a lot today, you must be feeling stressed." Smiling, France placed his fingers around the back of the younger nation's skull and kissed his hair again, this time at the left temple, and Canada tried and failed to not look absolutely ecstatic. The way France's lips felt against his hair, how they accidentally brushed against the curl, he had no idea how, but this felt infinitely more arousing than even a regular kiss… (Not that Canada had much experience with regular kisses, but he would like it to be known, politely, that America lacked technique.) Shyly, Canada looked up into France's gorgeous blue eyes, knowing blue eyes, and realized with horrified embarrassment that France already knew his secret.

Without hesitating, France flicked out his tongue and licked the tip of the curl before taking the end of the loop into his mouth and sucking hard. Canada cried out then, clutching at the other's shoulders in desperate need. One last lick, and France placed one hand underneath Canada's chin, to give the poor thing the tender kiss he deserved.

Here it was, the moment he had been waiting for, and all Canada could think about it was the taste of the conditioner in his hair now on France's tongue, somewhat sharp and herbal and hopefully not toxic. But once France pulled away, Canada reached up to thread his fingers into that wavy golden hair, and summoning all his courage, Canada returned the kiss with enthusiasm, trying to memorize the tastes and textures of France's lips and tongue and teeth, the scent of his skin, the feel of the stubble on his jaw, because he might not get the chance to do this again, and he had to make sure he would never forget.

The moment ended, as all moments do, and in the ensuing silence, Canada considered the likelihood of dying of mortification. To his eternal relief, France only whispered, "I don't think we should be doing this on your toilet seat. Just my professional opinion."

"Oh, right. M-my room is upstairs." God, why was he still blushing after all that? "You know, if you want to... err…"

France grinned and helped him to his feet, wrapping lean arms around his bare waist in an impromptu embrace. "I would love nothing more, Canada."

It seems that a miscommunication occurred, perhaps deliberately so on France's part, because while they had indeed entered the bedroom, making out all the way up the stairs, France taking off his glasses in one smooth motion, Canada ending up seated on the bed while the other leaned over him with a devilishly handsome smile that promised a night (well, afternoon and hopefully night) of pleasures beyond imagining…

What occurred next was not exactly what Canada had in mind.

"Just a little trim while your hair is still wet, _cheri_. It seems like America missed a few strands," France soothed, as he straightened a lock of Canada's hair between his fingers and snipped at the ends with a pair of salon shears he had somehow tucked into his back pocket. Canada sighed a little, biting his lower lip with equal parts of frustration and anticipation stinging at his eyes. Was he really so unsexy that even France, the nation of _l'amour_, would rather cut his hair than make love to him? But he had his hair to thank for getting this far, so he bore with the humiliation as bravely as he could.

Soon, he felt France settling on the mattress beside him, scissors set down on the table, fingers ruffling through his trimmed hair in a deliciously sensual manner. Canada turned his head as France leaned forward to kiss his cheek, arms dropping down to loosely embrace him, and they sat together in warm comfortable silence for a few minutes.

"Canada… Are you sure this is what you want? I have treated you so unfairly since I left you to England's care, and I feel like you might be rushing into things…" His voice sounded solemn, wistful, for he thought it would be unfair to take advantage of the sweet little colony he had cherished so long ago, even though that little colony had grown up to become a strong and rich nation. It was just that Canada thought so little of himself, and the only way France knew how to remedy that was through love. France had no qualms about sharing his particular type of love with Canada, if that was what he wanted (notions such as incest never bothered him as it did others), but he waited to see if Canada would say what he really thought.

Throughout the silence, Canada had been thinking of how to express this feeling he had for his father figure. It was difficult, because he had only just recently recognized the flurry of emotions that always seemed to accompany France's presence in his life, and the other's closeness made it hard to concentrate.

But Canada could see America in his life, the cheerfully blinding sun, and he could see England, kind and watchful but ever distant like the stars. So France's fickleness, his constant inconstancy, must be the moon, the light that made his evenings beautiful, the one he missed and yearned for, as he instinctively reached out across emptiness that separated them. Now, if he could just say all that without going "uhh" and "err…"

"France…" he began, looking into the other's eyes and nearly getting distracted again by the brilliant tenderness he saw there, "you… were the first to love me, the last to forget me. After you left and England told me not to talk to you, I secretly waited for the day I could return your affections freely, as... as lovers. Because I know now that I love you, everything about you, even the annoying parts…" There he said it, as confidently as he could. "So yes, this is what I want, and I hope it's what you want, too."

France's answer was a kiss, followed by roaming hands unzipping his jeans, an answer that was plain and clear.

He discovered then how gentle and considerate France could be in bed, that he liked to be kissed on the nape of his neck that you could only reach if you pulled his hair out of the way, and always, he always laughed during sex, but not in a mean way. He also discovered how much he liked France worshipping his feet, that he enjoyed long slow kisses even more than the hard fast ones, and that all of France's prior criticisms meant nothing compared to the genuinely adoring praises now being whispered into his ears as they made love.

Most of all, Canada loved how he felt beautiful under France's kisses and caresses, and when France finally slid into him, murmuring something encouraging in his own language as he pressed their lips together, moving at a maddeningly deliberate pace that soon had Canada moaning and shuddering in bliss, when he brought them both to orgasm effortlessly, Canada could have sworn that a little part of him… the part that always put himself down, the part that told him he was not worth any attention… died.

"_Je t'aime, et je t'aimerai toujours..."_ Canada whispered, still a little breathless, running his fingers through France's hair, which was as silky and smooth as expected. The other nation sighed in contentment and nuzzled his neck, making him laugh.

"Your accent's getting better," France teased gently, and Canada just smiled and kissed him again.

"We should try the other shampoo and conditioner, you know, sometime later. And maybe you could show me what type of hairbrushes you use. And also, how you keep you hair looking so nice in humid weather. And I want to ask you about hat hair…"


End file.
